“What are you doing, Uncle?”
“Gracious, girls, I think I have told you a dozen times not to creep up on me like that!”
“Sorry!” But from certain merry giggles my lord inferred they were not very sorry at all. He smiled.
“Are you satisfied with your new deportment master?”
“He is perfect.”
“Good. I shall await with interest your evolution from a parcel of monkeys to two elegant young ladies.”
Vicky grinned. “Won’t Mama and Papa be surprised? They shall hardly recognize us when they return from Rome, so decorous we shall be!”
My lord smiled. “I am not placing my trust in miracles. Mr. Darrington may be handsome, but I don’t think he is omnipotent! So long as you girls behave just a fraction more becomingly, I shall be well pleased.”
Clem looked indignant. “You wrong us, sir! We have been perfect angels ever since the unfortunate ink incident.”
“The . . . er . . . unfortunate ink incident, as you put it, has cost me a small fortune. I was obliged to pay Mr. Petersham a term’s fees and replace his confounded hat besides. Do you know he uses Renfrew and Grogan hatters? It was no small expense, I assure you.”
“Tsha! I’ll bet he never set foot in their premises in his life. Renfrew and Grogan indeed! You were hoodwinked, Uncle.”
“Again? Dear, dear. I thought once might be enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you little scamps, that you did not suffer your due punishment for that particular crime. I noticed a certain Miss Amaryllis Hastings coming to your rescue.”
The girls stared at one another guiltily.
“Oh, Uncle, pray do not be displeased! Punish us again, if you like, only don’t, don’t delete Miss Hastings from your list.”
“My list? By thunder, I should take my whip to you girls! Do you mean you have been reading my correspondence?”
“Only that one, Uncle, it was on your desk and we could not help but notice . . . have you danced with Miss Hastings? She really has the prettiest of ankles. We noticed, for she nearly tripped over our spy glasses . . .”
“Out! Both of you out before I lose my temper!”
Clementine held her ground. “Uncle, please, please consider Miss Hastings! Miss Ingles is a simpleton and Lady Wimberley is patronizing and Miss Caddington is nothing but a witch in woman’s clothing . . .”
“Out!”
There was no denying that tone of voice. The girls withdrew at once, but not before catching a glimpse, once more, of his lordship’s piece of parchment. It was entitled, rather crisply, “Suitable brides.”
Miss Hastings attended a number of soirées and balls in the following few weeks. They were all bittersweet, for though she glowed with anticipation, and was the prettier for it, she could not help but notice that his lordship paid her precious little attention at all, and that the prized offer of the waltz that she cherished so deeply in her memory was not repeated.
Lady Hastings, her mama, tried not to show her disappointment at this, but pushed Amaryllis even harder to find partners for every set. To Amaryllis’s extreme discomfort she gave up even her cards to do so, so now there was simply no respite and dozens of young gentlemen were forced by common civility to make their bows.
Amaryllis found this process excruciating and withdrew more than ever into her shyness. As a result, any suitors she might have had soon gave up, and only Mr. Ratchins kept making sly remarks about matrimony and the “honor he might imminently bestow a certain young lady.”
Amaryllis had now ceased to hope that the earl might call, and lived in constant dread that Mr. Ratchins might live up to his promises and do so instead. As far as possible she hid in the herbarium, and what comfort she got was in the delicious scents of lemongrass that pervaded the area, for the propagation had taken very well indeed, and the transformation of rose petals to essences was worth the effort.
She had almost forgotten her strange malady—for such she had come to think of those nonsensical pangs of hope and tenderness that overcame her at times—when she heard the crunch of carriage wheels across the cobbled entrance to Melville House—the town residence they rented for the summer. Her heart sank into her slippers, for they were expecting no guests, and she was still haunted by the notion that Mr. Ratchins might come up to scratch.
She glanced at her gown. It was an old one, for there was no sense in wearing her best silks when she was pottering about the garden—and her hair was all about her face instead of neatly pinned. She fixed this detail, and waited, her heart beating erratically in her chest.
After half an hour or so of suspense, the carriage moved on—she could just see it from the high window of the herbarium, but not any of its details. She heaved a tiny sigh of relief. It could not, after all, have been anyone of consequence.
Chapter Four
How wrong she was proven! It was someone of great consequence indeed, and had she but known it, those few quiet moments in the herbarium were to be her last.
Just as she was trimming some dead leaves off a small tree of Valencia oranges, her mama whirled into the room and positively crushed her to her bosom in an embrace that practically squeezed all the air from her lungs. When she was released, Amaryllis was astounded to note that Lady Hastings was crying, and that the tears were staining her India silk shawl. Lady Hastings did not seem to care.
“Oh, Amaryllis! It is like a dream come true! I knew it would happen, oh, I knew it! Oh, my dear, I am so terribly, terribly happy for you! “
Amaryllis felt a strange lurching in her stomach. Her mama’s happiness could surely mean only one thing, and that one thing was something she had been perfectly dreading for weeks.
“Mama?”
“Yes, my angel?”
“Have I received a proposal of marriage?”
“Yes, yes, yes, my poppet! And didn’t I tell you it would be so? Oh, how I could ever have doubted . . . oh, Amaryllis I am so happy for you, but you must change at once. That old muslin won’t do, you know, not anymore . . .”
“Mama, I have not been consulted!”
“Very proper too, for naturally your papa and my consent had to be obtained first. You surely would not think he would be so improper as to approach you before speaking to us, do you? Now run along, dear, and ask Mattie to dress you in that white fichu with perhaps the string of pearls . . .”
“Mama! Am I not to have a say in this matter?”
Lady Hastings looked suddenly flustered.
“Now, Amaryllis, you are not to create a fuss! In matters as important as this you really must trust your parents. Have we not always had your best interests at heart?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“So then? You are not going to let your silly shyness stand in the way of matrimony, Amaryllis! I won’t allow it, I simply won’t!”
“Does it not matter whether my affections are engaged?”
“No, Amaryllis, it does not! Such romantical notions are for writers and poets. You shall do very well, my dear, and if you are a trifle shy at first, well, you will grow in confidence as every year passes. That is how it was with your father and myself, and you know how happy and comfortable we have been together!”
“Mama, you can’t compare Papa to Mr. Ratchins!”
Lady Hastings stared at her daughter. Then, with a little tremble of laughter, she drew her closer.
“Good Lord, Amaryllis, for an intelligent girl you are really rather slow! We gave Mr. Ratchins his comeuppance about a week ago. I would prefer you remain a spinster forever than marry that odious, pompous creature! Gracious, do you realize he actually expected us to be relieved? Inquired after your dowry too, which is nobody’s business but your father’s and the man you actually have permission to marry. The effrontery of it, can you imagine? I enjoyed sending him packing, which I shouldn’t say, for I do aspire to be a peaceable kind of person, but that man could try the patience of saints!”
Amaryllis felt
her legs weaken in relief. Then, as the next obvious question occurred to her, she felt her chest constrict, and she would really have been very close to a faint if she did not have such a remarkable, resolute character.
“Then, Mama . . . ?”
“Oh, Amaryllis, can you not guess? It is the Earl of Devonport who has offered for you and in such charming form, too—you cannot imagine. You are to be a countess, my dear, and my only hope is that I can be present when the likes of Martha Caddington open their Morning Gazettes.”
The residence was in more of an uproar than Amaryllis had ever known it to be before. From cupboards and stairwells maids and underbutlers and even Cook from the kitchens were taking the opportunity of popping out and staring at her as she made her bewildered progress from the herbarium to her bedchamber above stairs.
Apparently, the secret was less of a secret than she had imagined, for here and there maidservants grinned and bobbed shyly, and even Charlie, hired for his skill with a team of matched bays, whistled as she caught sight of him from the windows.
Amaryllis was shaking and hardly knew what to think, never mind respond, as the servants paid their respects. Even her bedchamber was not private, for her dresser was waiting, and had laid out three of her favorite gowns, not to mention all her mother’s jewels upon her bed. Amaryllis politely asked her to leave, and ignored the woman’s disappointment as she put her head in her hands and tried so very hard to think.
It all seemed so impossible! The earl had not looked at her once in a fortnight! Oh, he had made his bow to her and exchanged a few civil words, but nothing to suggest . . . nothing to suggest such a step as this! She wondered, for a moment, whether it might all be some cruel joke, then shook her head. The earl would not behave so wickedly. If he had spoken to her parents, then he was in earnest, though she was still no clearer as to why. When he made his formal proposal, she would ask him. She would overcome her stupid shyness and ask him outright. That, she thought, was the very least she could do.
Thus decided, Amaryllis invited her dresser back and determined to choose the prettiest gown possible. The diamonds she waved away, but a necklet of roses she kept, and a circlet of amethysts for her soft, golden hair. She looked the closest thing to a princess that she had ever done before and viewing her image in the glass, she felt, for once, almost satisfied.
The interview with his lordship was arranged for two o’clock precisely. At that moment—and not a second before—the Earl of Davenport was announced in ringing tones by Carthews, the resident butler. Amaryllis stood up to greet him, as did Lady Hastings, and Lord Hastings, too, who had taken time out from Boodles to accord the earl this civility.
The earl, Amaryllis noted with a sinking heart, was immaculate beyond compare. He was not a dandy, but his elegance was tangible, and his ease with that elegance seemed enviable. He did not stare uncomfortably out of his shirt points as Lord Hastings did, nor did he seem too starched to move, though his doeskins fit every muscle like a glove, and Amaryllis felt the heat pouring into her cheeks as her eyes lingered too long upon this interesting fact.
Lady Hastings smiled indulgently, and after pointedly removing Lord Hastings from his Heppelwhite mahogany shield-back chair, of which he was very fond (and into which he had just thankfully sunk), she announced that under the circumstances it would be perfectly proper for the couple to engage in some moments of private conversation.
As the door closed behind them, Amaryllis felt more nervous than ever, and that marvelous feeling of looking almost princesslike had evaporated. Her circlet of amethysts now sat heavily upon her brow and she found she could hardly dare look up.
Lord Devonport removed the awkwardness of the moment by taking Amaryllis’s hand in his and looking deeply into her eyes. They were a lovely color, her truest asset, especially as they were surrounded by those dark, lustrous lashes that seemed to frame her face.
Stephen was not merry, or flirtatious, or even for a moment unsure of himself. He merely took her hand, ungloved it, and slipped upon her finger a gold band sparkling with gems of a deep, and rather unusual hue.
“Amaryllis, will you do me the honor of becoming my bride?”
Amaryllis did not know what had happened to her tongue. It simply wouldn’t speak, and as the moments ticked by they seemed more like hours than a few hesitant seconds. The ring felt heavy on her finger, but sparkled with an intensity Amaryllis could not help but find intriguing. Or perhaps that was because Stephen had still not let go of her hand, and she had never felt such an impropriety before, or not for so very long, and her skin tingled with pleasure and apprehension and a million other sensations she could hardly analyze or understand.
After a moment, the sound of the ormolu clock on the mantel became embarrassing, and Stephen found his interest arrested. So! Miss Hastings was not the type of maiden he had latterly encountered. The type who would do anything—anything—to get his ring on her grasping little finger. This lady was the only one who had ever had the honor, yet she seemed to be battling against some inner demon. He admired her for it, though he felt slight exasperation on his own account.
“You hesitate?”
Amaryllis flushed. “You must think me so ill-mannered! I am sorry, my lord, there can naturally be no question that the answer is yes.”
“And yet, I think, there is such a question. Your eyes speak volumes and you tremble, my dear.”
“It is just so . . . so . . . sudden.”
“It must seem so to you. For me it is not sudden at all. I have been thinking of matrimony for a long while.”
“With me?”
Stephen smiled gently. “No, not necessarily with you, for I have long known that my succession must be secured. Indeed, I find myself wishing more and more for that happy state known as fatherhood. My own father, you see, was rather distant. I would like to reverse that cycle, if I can. You are not the first I have contemplated marriage with, but you are eminently suitable and I feel we shall deal handsomely together.”
He hesitated as he saw the crushed expression on Amaryllis’s face. His tone grew gentle.
“You may know that there are several ladies I would not even contemplate marrying no matter what their dowry or lineage. I may not be in love with you—indeed, it would be foolish to pretend so—but I am nevertheless glad that you are the one I have chosen. I feel certain I shall not be disappointed in my choice.”
For an instant, Amaryllis wanted to take the ring back and throw it in his face. He was not offering for her out of affection, merely out of calculation! It is tremendously lowering to think one is to be joined in wedlock because the matter is convenient, because an heir is required, because one’s bloodlines are appropriate . . . she felt ready to burst with chagrin.
Then, as the moment grew as dangerous as it was ever likely to be, she noticed that the earl’s eyes were kind. Though they might be slightly ironic, they were laughing as much at himself as at her.
“It is strange, is it not, how society never seems satisfied until it has thrust every last bachelor and every last spinster into wedlock?”
Amaryllis, recovering her composure, nodded.
“It seems a consuming passion, my lord.”
“Indeed, and we are doubtless going to be grist for the gossip mills.”
“My lord . . .”
“If we are going to be betrothed, you might just as well call me by my given name. It is Stephen, in case you were unaware.”
Amaryllis blushed, for naturally in her first throes of love she had discovered all she could about the noble Stephen Redding, and his earldom of Devonport. She did not say as much, however, but murmured that “Stephen” sounded too . . .
“Familiar?”
She blushed again, if this was possible. My lord thought it a pity that she usually wore her hair braided so severely, or that her bonnets always hid half her face. She looked so much prettier with her honey-colored locks flowing softly about her face. When she blushed, her eyes grew round and misty.
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She nodded. “Yes. It is too familiar. We hardly know each other, after all.”
“That can be rectified. I am not an ogre, and though I might be some eight years older than you, I fancy I am not yet in my dotage. Come, call me Stephen, for I shall certainly call you Amaryllis!”
“Stephen . . .” Amaryllis hesitated, for though it was difficult, now was the time for plain speaking. Now, whilst the door was shut between them and the prying ears beyond. Now, before she was chaperoned to the alter or married, when the question would be too late to be asked.
He waited, not prompting her, or making the matter any easier. The ormolu clocked ticked on the mantel. Amaryllis took a deep breath. Then she raised her eyes to Stephen’s and smiled.
Chapter Five
Lord Redding needed to catch his breath. Her smile was more devastating than he had noticed before. He folded his arms behind his back. Nothing could be so intemperate as kissing her now. He had seen what became of relationships that began as love matches.
His own mama’s had been a case in point and the matter had been disastrous. His father—long deceased—had trampled all over her feelings, dominated the household, and reduced her to many hours of tears.
As a little boy this had made the greatest impression upon him, and he’d resolved long ago not to make the same mistake himself. He did not wish to see any wife of his hanging upon his shirtsleeves, her happiness dependent on his smiles. Neither, of course, did he wish to be the silly fellow whose heart burnt every time his wife breathed, and whose every moment was caught up in trifling jealousies or infelicitous calf love. He cursed himself for a fool to be so taken by Amaryllis’s smile.
He bent his mind, instead, to the question.
“My lord . . . Stephen . . . may I ask . . . that is . . . I cannot help wondering why I am your choice. You are not in love with me—how could you be?—and I cannot believe the nonsense put about by my mama that our land marches close together. Hastings land is but a garden meadow compared with yours! There must be some other reason for your offer and I believe I have the right to know it before taking this . . . this . . . step.”
An Imperfect Proposal Page 3